


The conditions of a solitary bird

by killabeez



Series: Solitary Birds [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Jeremiah (TV)
Genre: Community: intoabar, Crossover, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 02:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: Jeremiah walks into a bar and meets Joe Dawson.





	The conditions of a solitary bird

**Author's Note:**

> In 2006, a plague killed almost everyone over the age of puberty. Fifteen years later, Jeremiah and his friend Kurdy joined up with a group of survivors who came of age after the Big Death. With the help of an enigmatic man who calls himself Mister Smith (and claims to hear the voice of God), they fought a war and eventually engineered a truce with another group from the east.

_The conditions of a solitary bird are five:_  
_The first, that it flies to the highest point;_  
_the second, that it does not suffer for company,_  
_not even of its own kind;_  
_the third, that it aims its beak to the skies;_  
_the fourth, that it does not have a definite color;_  
_the fifth, that it sings very softly._

\- San Juan de la Cruz, Dichos de Luz y Amor

~ * ~

 **Northwest Alliance Territory, 2022**  
_Three months after the Treaty of Four Roads_

Summer had at last reached the central Cascades, and the sun fell warm on Jeremiah’s back as he and Smith crossed the bridge on foot and entered the picturesque town of Riverbend. They’d left the rover hidden off to the side of the road a mile back, like the old days; while they hadn’t encountered any serious trouble since leaving Millhaven, it never hurt to be careful.

In the aftermath of the battle that almost was, rumors had been flying. Everywhere they’d stopped, they’d found people bubbling over with impossible dreams of what the new country was going to look like. Jeremiah had already heard talk of electricity and clean water and more food than anyone could eat—everything short of perpetual sunshine and rainbows. Markus’s people had done all they could to spread the story of what had really happened in that muddy field where the two armies met, but the truth could only go so far. People wanted to believe in a better future. They were desperate to believe in it.

As for Smith, he thought God had already returned to take control of things, while Jeremiah couldn’t shake the feeling that the Big Death wasn’t finished with them yet.

Jeremiah glanced at his unlikely companion, unsure whether he was glad or sorry that they’d soon be parting ways. Smith would head west toward Medford to visit another school like Hannah’s; Jeremiah would turn north toward Corvallis, where rumors indicated the Brothers of the Apocalypse had another monastery. They each had their mission: Smith was searching for more genius kids like the ones back in Colorado, while Jeremiah had taken up the old hunt once more, still following the trail that Simon had first uncovered and that he and Kurdy had pursued for almost a year. He’d started his own journal, and in it he’d been collecting everything they knew about the vaccine experiments, about the Burners, about the people he and Kurdy had met on the road together.

That was how—while his friends were thousands of miles away, doing their best to build a new nation—Jeremiah had ended up on the road with Smith, of all people, who was taking him to meet a guy named Mac, who ran a bar in what used to be Oregon, in a town called Riverbend.

“How do you know this guy again?” Jeremiah asked as they approached the door.

“He knows a lot of people. It’s that kind of place.”

A weathered but neatly painted sign indicated the name of the place. “Lucille’s,” Jeremiah said aloud. “Who’s Lucille? I thought you said the guy’s name was Mac.”

Smith gave his enigmatic, non-answer shrug. He opened the door, and Jeremiah stepped past him into the bar.

The place was busy, patrons at almost every table and crowded around the bar, and they gave Jeremiah and Smith the usual appraising looks as they came in, but the vibe was mellow and non-threatening, the murmur of voices quiet for the number of people. Jeremiah immediately became aware of the music over everything else—a clear, moody guitar and a guy’s voice like nothing he’d ever heard before, gritty and smooth and rich all at the same time.

 _‘Hard luck and trouble is my only friend_  
_I been on my own ever since I was ten’_

Tell me about it, Jeremiah thought. The quality of the sound was so pure and intimate, it took him a moment to realize it was coming from stereo speakers in the corners.

 _‘Born under a bad sign_  
_Been down since I began to crawl’_

“Damn,” he murmured, wishing Kurdy were here. He didn’t know much about music, but he knew art when he heard it. Not many people would use valuable generator power to run a stereo amp, even one of this quality. Maybe it was solar? If so, that had to be one hell of a rig.

Smith headed toward an open spot at the bar, so Jeremiah followed. The bartender—a tall, rangy guy with a nose like a hatchet—was busy down at the far end, but they’d been waiting only thirty seconds or so before a gravelly voice greeted them.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Look who the cat dragged in.”

Jeremiah turned, and was surprised to see a man in a wheelchair approaching. The guy had white hair, and had to be at least seventy. He wasn’t the first old person Jeremiah had met, but shit, Smith coulda warned him.

Smith shrugged his pack off and set it on a bar stool. “Hey, Mac. It has been a while.” He cocked his head, listening to the music. “Is this a new one?”

“Gift from a friend a couple months back. What do you think?”

Smith nodded his head to the rhythm. “It’s great.”

Mac huffed in agreement. “As great as they come. It’s a classic. Mr. Albert King.”

_‘If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all’_

That line made Jeremiah think of Kurdy, too. But the old guy was looking at him, so he kept his expression neutral.

“Pour you gentlemen a beer?” Mac asked, eyes still on Jeremiah. “You look like you could use one.” He maneuvered behind the bar and pulled down two ceramic mugs, then a third for himself.

Smith broke into a smile. “Thought you’d never ask.” To Jeremiah, he said, “Mac makes it himself. Wait until you taste it.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Jeremiah said with manufactured enthusiasm. He had his doubts, but it was the polite thing to do. The guy had lived this long. How bad could it be?

Smith, it turned out, might actually know a thing or two.

“Now, that,” Jeremiah said, “is really something.” He’d tried beer out of a bottle on a dare once when he was a kid, and the experience wasn’t one he’d care to repeat. Since then, he’d tasted homemade brews once or twice, but that had always been an exercise in ignoring the smell and the taste for the alcohol effects. This stuff was actually good, and it only got better on the second sip. His shook his head and gave a low whistle of appreciation. “You made this?”

Mac grinned. “Learned from the best.”

“Well, no wonder everybody comes to Lucille’s. You must make a killing with this stuff.”

“I do all right.” Mac raised his mug to acknowledge the compliment. “So, what can I do for you, Smith? I hear you’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“And who’s your friend?”

“This,” Smith said, low enough that it wouldn’t carry, “is Jeremiah.”

Mac’s interest sharpened, and he looked keenly at Jeremiah. “ _The_ Jeremiah?” He gave Smith an impressed glance. “You do get around, my friend.”

Jeremiah’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Son, ain’t too many folks these days who haven’t.” Mac reached out a hand, and after a moment, Jeremiah shook it. For an old guy, his grip was impressive, his hand rough with calluses. He leaned back in his chair. “So, what brings you to my humble tavern?”

“Looking for information. Smith here seemed to think you could help.”

Mac considered him with the gaze of a man who didn’t miss much, but also wasn’t in the habit of sharing information with just anyone. “Well,” he said at last, “might be I could. Grab your beer, and let’s set a spell.”

Jeremiah and Smith followed him toward a doorway hung with old-fashioned swinging saloon doors. Beyond it was a hallway lined with kegs. This led to a smaller room in the back with a couch, a small table, and two walls lined with bookshelves. The shelves were crammed full, but neatly organized, hardly a speck of dust on them.

“I’ve got a friend you should meet,” Jeremiah murmured. The books weren’t the only treasures; a beautiful guitar stood in one corner, and three more hung on the wall behind it. But then his eye was caught by a box-shaped contraption.

“Wait, is that a record player?”

“Sho ‘nuff is,” Mac said. “Not too many CDs lasted this long, but the vinyl survives, long as it’s left alone and outta the sun. Sounds better, too. You seen one before?”

“My mom had one.”

“I’ll show it to you some time.”

“And the guitars—you play?”

Mac gave a self-deprecating shrug, and Smith chuckled. At Jeremiah’s glance, he said, “Let’s just say the beer isn’t his only talent.”

“But enough about me. Something tells me you didn’t come here to ask about my record collection.” Mac gestured at a table, and they settled in around it.

Jeremiah considered where to begin. “You ever heard of the Brothers of the Apocalypse?”

“We’ve crossed paths a few times.”

“How about Valhalla Sector?”

Mac gave him a look. “Doubt there’s much I could tell you about that place that you don’t already know.”

Which told Jeremiah that Smith had been right about this guy. Running a blues bar at the ass-end of nowhere, and he didn’t even blink at the name Valhalla Sector. Jeremiah didn’t know what he’d expected—maybe another one of the unhinged conspiracy theorists he and Kurdy had met before. Guys like Eddie, and Wylie, who knew just enough to make them paranoid. But Mac was something else.

Jeremiah decided to cut to the chase.

“I met one of the Brothers, a guy named Clarence, outside of Clarefield, Colorado a few months back. He told me that they believe the Big Death isn’t over. I’ve met a few others here and there who agree with them.” He pulled his journal out of his coat pocket and laid it on the table between them. “I’ve been putting together whatever information I can find, trying to figure out if they might be right—and if so, what we can do to stop it. You seem like the kind of guy who might have some pieces of the puzzle that I don’t.”

The old dude’s eyes had sharpened at the appearance of the journal, and his gaze lingered on it a moment before he asked, “Did Markus send you? Or you come on your own?”

“Markus doesn’t know I’m here. I guess you could say he’s kinda busy these days.” Jeremiah tilted his head toward his traveling companion. “Coming here was Smith’s idea.”

Mac’s gaze shifted to Smith for a long moment, considering that. At last he rubbed a hand over his beard. “May you live in interesting times,” he said. “Smith, you sure about this?”

“It’s time,” said Smith, in that way he had of announcing decisions like they were gospel. “We have to work together if we’re going to have a future.”

Mac’s eyes went back to Jeremiah’s journal, and he seemed to come to a decision. “Well, then, I’ve got something to show you.” He wiped his fingers on his shirt and pushed back from the table toward the nearest bookshelf. He pulled a thick, leather bound volume off the shelf and returned, flipping the book around to lay it down in front of Jeremiah.

“What’s this?” Jeremiah set his beer to one side and opened the book. Inside, the pages were lined and covered in handwritten script. He flipped past the first few, then stopped as a date caught his eye. “August 28, 2004,” he murmured. His eyes tracked the first few lines, and he realized what he was looking at.

_The power went out this morning. Paris went radio silent last night, and nobody’s heard from Madeleine since Wednesday. Still haven’t heard from MacLeod, but we can’t afford to wait for him any longer…_

Jeremiah paged through the book and saw more dates, names, places: a chronicle of the Big Death as it had happened. He looked up, a chill in his blood. “Is this what I think it is?”

Mac nodded, wry. “Figured someone should write it down. ‘Course, I never expected to be around to see how the story ended.”

“But you were one of the lucky ones.”

“Depends on how you look at it.”

“Fair enough.” Jeremiah scanned the shelf that Mac had pulled the book from, and saw more than a dozen like it. “Those all journals?”

“Yep. One for each year since.”

Jeremiah gave a low whistle. “Does anyone know about them?”

“Only people I trust.”

For the first time in a while, Jeremiah felt hope stir. “I don’t know where you came from, Mac, but man, I sure would be grateful if I could spend some time with those.”

“Been holding on to them for a long time, waiting for the right person. Guess that’s you. And it’s Joe, actually. Joe Dawson.” At Jeremiah’s look, he shrugged. “Sometimes it pays to keep a low profile.”

“Pleased to meet you, Joe. And thank you. I promise, you won’t regret this.”

Dawson chuckled, and tilted his mug toward Jeremiah in a half-salute. “Kid, don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a continuation of this at some point.


End file.
